With This Heart
by JGRhodes
Summary: The roar of the city falls away and all he can hear is Sherlock – "John? John!" – as London goes dark and his body pitches forward onto the hard concrete.
1. London Goes Dark

The first time it happens, John is at surgery.

He's walking down the hall on his way to examine a ten year old with a possible case of bacterial meningitis when his breath is sucked out of his chest by some invisible vacuum. His vision flickers in and out of clarity for a few moments and he throws an arm out towards the wall, looking for purchase on the handrail he knows is there.

Vertigo sets in after that. He drags himself into an empty room and collapses on a gurney, chest heaving, desperate for air.

The symptoms pass a few minutes later and he is back in the hall, smiling at the pretty nurses. Eventually the entire episode leaves his mind.

That night he and Sherlock chase a criminal across London and back before catching him. They solve the case and save the day, as they always do, and when they return to 221B John is amazed at how tired he is.

God, I'm getting too old for this shit.

A year passes, episodes of dizziness and shortness of breath sprinkled generously throughout the months until, one day, it suddenly gets so much worse.

He's sitting at the kitchen table that morning, frowning at his toast.

"You're not fat, John," Sherlock says. He's standing with a plate of (burnt) eggs in one hand and a cup of coffee (no sugar this time) in the other.

John's head snaps up. "What?"

"I said you're not fat. In fact, you're in prime physical condition which is why you need to stop this ridiculous diet you're on and –

"You think I'm on a diet?"

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and studies John's face. "You've not been eating. It's the only logical deduction."

He gives a snort and a chuckle. "Really, Sherlock, I just haven't been hungry lately."

Sherlock sets the eggs and coffee in front of him. "Eat," he says.

"You don't eat," John points out.

"I'm different. Eating slows me down. You need to eat in order to keep up with me. I need you in top form."

"So this is about you, is it?" His heart speeds up and thuds strangely against his chest. Selfish, unreasonable, pig headed man! "I don't need a nanny, Sherlock!"

"I can't rely on you when you're half dead from hunger."

John pushes away from the table and stands. "Right. Course. Because that's all you ever worry about, isn't it? How something will affect you and fuck all if someone else is involved or feels differently!"

He grabs his coat and heads for the door.

"John, _please_," Sherlock's voice is soft, like a plea, "Just eat _something_."

He eats every damn bite of those burnt eggs.

They head out around noon. Sherlock is determined to harass Lestrade into an early grave –"Early. Ha!" – and will therefore stalk the poor man to every crime scene he attends until something interesting pops up.

They arrive in a cab and his flatmate bounds out the door and across the police tape before they've come to a full stop. John pays the driver – making a note of his face because he'll never make that mistake again – and trails behind his friend.

He moves slowly. He's entire body feels much too heavy.

Not enough bloody sleep. Bloody violin at bloody two in the bloody morning.

Sherlock is giving Anderson a tongue lashing. He can tell, because Anderson looks as if someone's jammed a red hot poker up his arse. It's amusing and slightly disturbing.

He shakes his head and searches for Lestrade. He sees him, on the other side of the crime scene, talking to Sally.

He takes two steps in their direction and stumbles.

His heart is beating a wild, ragged tattoo in his ears and he's no longer just short of breath – he can't breathe at all. He tried to focus on Lestrade, but the man is a wibbly gray blob in the distance.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

The city is swaying, building bending in the breeze like trees in a hurricane. Or…is he the one swaying? His stomach is doing flips and he can't think, can't think, can't think…straight.

Help. Someone help me.

The roar of the city falls away and all he can hear is Sherlock – _"John? John!"_ – as London goes dark and his body pitches forward onto the hard concrete.


	2. Sleeping Arrangements

Idiopathic Restrictive Cardiomyopathy resulting in Acute Heart Failure.

Translation: Your heart is giving out.

He knows what this means, knows the risks and complications and…eventualities…that come with the diagnosis, but he allows the Cardiologist to explain them aloud for Sherlock's benefit.

"The heart muscle has become ridged, less elastic, and is failing to fill with blood between heartbeats," the man says. "We believe, in your case Mr. Watson –

"It's _Doctor_ Watson," Sherlock interrupts.

"Right, yes. We believe this was caused by genetic factors. Family history, you might say. Normally, Restrictive Cardiomyopathy is treatable with certain medications –

"Get to the point!"

"Sherlock," John says, "You're not helping."

The Cardiologist looks at his shoes. "You must understand, Mr. Holmes, that his heart isn't working properly anymore. We can try to treat him, to make him comfortable, but eventually…"

John can see his friends' ire rising swiftly. He could always tell, you see, by the color of his eyes. They grew dark when pleased with himself, bright when he was about to fly into a towering rage. "You'll have to be a bit more thorough than usual. He's doesn't like being uninformed," he says.

"If he receives treatment and everything goes well, he could live for quite a few more years. But he's already an advanced case. If we'd caught it early there may have been more we could do, but it's a bit late for that. He's already in heart failure. There's no way of knowing when his heart may just give out on him."

"He'll die?"

"…Yes."

Later, John will be quite impressed with the aerodynamics of the bedpan, but he's quite shocked at the moment it fly's past the Cardiologist's head. "Out!" Sherlock shouts.

"Sherlock! What the _hell_ are you doing?"

"Now that I've gotten rid of that idiot I'm going to find you a better doctor."

"Sherlock –

But nothing he can say will deter the man in front of him. His dogged pursual of any and all hear specialist in Great Britain is a rather praiseworthy, if moot, gesture of the friendship Sherlock feels for him. Three days later he's been seen by four different specialists.

They all say the same thing.

When he's strong enough to be discharged they allow Sherlock to take him home. He pulls himself up the stairs one at a time, Sherlock's arm wrapped around his waist for support, until they reach the landing.

221B is transformed. It's cleaner for one, but it looks as though his flatmate has done away with anything that might be considered a "hazard" to his invalid friend.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Mmmmm."

"What? How? What _happened_ in here?"

"Mrs. Hudson," he says from behind his laptop.

"Ah, right," he mutters. "Well, I'm off to bed then."

He turns and makes for the stairs, hell bent on collapsing on the tiny bit of heaven known as his mattress, when Sherlock spoke. "Where are you going?"

"Bed. Upstairs. You know, where my bed is?"

"We've switched rooms," he says, staring intently at the computer screen.

John shakes his head a bit, trying to clear it, because he's sure he'd just heard Sherlock say they'd switched rooms. "Come again?"

"Really, John, do keep up," Sherlock does that eye roll thing he does when he thinks someone's being stupid and John resists the urge to punch him. "One flight of stairs is enough for you to contend with. Forcing you to go up two is just plain idiocy. Mrs. Hudson said she'd give us her flat on the ground floor, but I knew you'd say no, so I switched our rooms. It's quite simple."

"Oh," he says. He knew this. It'd happened before, like argument about the eggs. This, this wild, rare phenomenon, was Sherlock showing that he cared. "Thank you."

Sherlock blushes and avoids his gaze, "Sentiment."

"Too right it is, but thanks all the same," he says, hobbling across the floor to his new room.

Sherlock has arranged the room exactly as John himself would have. The bed is far from the door (old army habit) and his gun is inside the bedside table. His dresser is across the room. On it is the cologne Mrs. Hudson bought him last Christmas, a dish of loose change, and a picture of Bagdad he'd taken from inside a helicopter.

He opens the drawers and frowns. Sherlock has implemented his sock index to…well. More than his socks. He shakes his head and smiles. Only Sherlock would think it was okay to rearrange someone's underwear.

He crawls into bed and ignores the feeling of dread that settles in his stomach. Bad things come in threes; this happiness will not last.

He waits for the other shoe to drop.


	3. This life, no other

Sherlock was taking the 'healthy eating is the key' aspect of the situation far too seriously.

There was no junk food in the entire flat. No biscuits, no ice cream, no booze, _nothing_. John wants his bacon and tatties and pancakes and _food_. What he gets is decaf tea, egg whites – bloody egg whites! – and plain oatmeal.

"Research says changing your diet can help," Sherlock explains to him levelly.

John fights the urge to shout at him because, in his own strange way, Sherlock is trying to help. "Not…really that hungry, thanks," he says instead.

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

Sherlock is out of his chair and around the table in the blink of an eye. "Are you alright?" he asks, pressing a hand against John's good shoulder. "Are there any other symptoms?"

"What the hell are you on about?"

"You lost your appetite," he tells him. "Before you…fell."

John lets out a small huff of laughter and places his hand on top of Sherlock's. A small jolt of electricity shoots through his arm and skitters its way down his spine. He looks up at his friend and sees that wild eyed calculating look cross his face. He felt it too.

John clears his throat. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Just…trying to get used to all this, you know?"

Sherlock pulls his hand away and John watches him retreat to the other side of the flat. He wants to say something. He really does, but the words turn to tar in his mouth and his tongue becomes heavy.

What would he say, anyway? _'Don't worry, mate. I'm not planning on stuffing it just yet.'_ Or maybe _'You were fine without me before. You'll be fine when I'm gone.'_ Or he could tell the truth and say _'I'm afraid, Sherlock. I'm so, so very afraid.'_

The violin strikes up a funeral dirge.

John heads off to surgery

* * *

The staff treats him like he's made of glass. Sarah takes all the difficult patients and saddles him with snotty three year olds and abdominal pain cases.

They (the staff) think he's back too soon but what can he do? There are no cases and, therefore, no other means of income beyond his own. It would be a fine fix indeed if Mrs. Hudson had to put them out because they didn't pay the rent.

_Besides,_ he thinks, _the world isn't going to stop turning just because I've an off ticker._

* * *

Sherlock is still sitting in the same position when John gets home. He would have thought Sherlock hadn't moved one fraction of an inch if his laptop wasn't sitting in front of his silent friend.

Sherlock's eyes flicker up when he enters the room. John smiles at him. "Blimey, Surgery takes it out of me," he says conversationally.

"Hm."

_That went well, _he thinks, and he shuffles off to the kitchen. There are thumbs in the blender – "An experiment, John." – and feet in the freezer. Sherlock's foray into living like a proper human being was short lived, apparently.

"John."

John stops mixing honey into his tea and lifts his head. Sherlock is standing next to him, eyes bright and feverish, and John in immediately worried. "…Yes?"

"I've spoken with Mycroft –

"Christ in heaven…"

"I've had to take on two cases but I think it's well worth it."

"_What did you __**do**__?"_

"He's agreed to take you on as a private physician," Sherlock says simply. "I'll place a call to St. Bart's this afternoon and let them know you won't be coming back."

His blood pressure sky rockets and his hand begins to shake. "No," he snaps. "No, no, no, no, Sherlock!"

His friend looks puzzled. "Why?"

He slams his fist down on the counter and sends his cup flying. "Because, Sherlock, you can't just take this out of my hands! This is my life, my body, my heart that is failing and I will not have my whole life turned upside down because of it! And I'm certainly not going to work for your brother!"

Sherlock surveys him. "He said you'd say that."

"Well apparently he knows me a lot better than you do!" his knees suddenly buckle.

Sherlock grabs him under his arms and hauls him to his feel. He's not gentle by any stretch of the imagination but he reaches around behind him, one arm encircling John, and pulls a chair close. "Sit," he commands.

John sits, resting his elbows on his knees, concentrating on his breathing.

"Do you honestly think I want you to work for him?" Sherlock asks. "I don't. In fact, I would recommend staying as far away from him as possible, but you can't go back to St. Bart's. Your body can't handle it, John. What if you have to run? What if someone comes in with heart failure? Can you honestly tell me you could perform chest compression on them while still being objective? Or worse, endangering yourself by trying to save them? What if your heart gives out in the middle of an operation? What then?"

"Sherlock…"

"Go to Mycroft. The job is easy and he's willing to pay twice what Bart's offers."

John sighs. "I can't," he says. "I just can't. This life, Sherlock, this is the life I want. I don't want it to change. I want…I want this. Us. The cases and the running and catching a cab from a crime scene to try and make it to Surgery on time and you and your bloody violin at three in the morning. I don't want to be shut up in an office somewhere, taking Mycroft's blood pressure when some idiot nearly blows up a nuclear power plant."

Sherlock huffs and mutters, "That was one time."

John reaches out and takes the Detective's hand. "If I drop dead in the middle of this life, Sherlock, I will die a happy man. But _this_ life. No other."

Sherlock curls his fingers around John's hand and closes his eyes. His heart leaps and begins to thump a bit faster.

Sherlock's eyes snap open, they've changed colors again, and his nostrils flair. _He's bloody deducing me!_

"You did not just take my pulse!"

Sherlock steps closer. "Should I not have?"

_I really need to get this under control,_ he thinks. _This is getting bloody ridiculous. _

"You cant do that! You can't just –

"Can't what? Do speak up, John. You're beginning to remind me of Anderson."

He leaps to his feet. "You can't just deduce me, Sherlock! It isn't fair!"

"Deduce you, John? I haven't even _begun_ to deduce you," he steps towards his friend. "Would you like me to try?"

John strides across the room, desperate to put distance between them. How do they get into these situations? They'd only finished one argument before flinging headlong into a new one! "Don't –

"Why not?" he asks. "After all, it would take a blind man to miss the signs. Did you think I wouldn't notice you looking at me when I wasn't paying attention? I'm always paying attention, John. Always. Or perhaps you thought I couldn't hear you? That spring mattress of your creaks in the most annoying manner on a day to day basis, but on occasion the squeaking is drowned out by you moaning out my name. Or it could have been the fake girlfriends whom you never slept with that gave you away."

He's stalking forward now and John barely registers the fact that he's backed himself into a corner, literally. He's caught between the fridge and Sherlock's body and he's not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing but God he never thought it would happen like this. It wasn't supposed to happen _this_ way, if it happened at all!

"I ignored it because you ignored it," he's hardly a hairsbreadth from John's face. "I didn't want you at first. You remember, don't you? The night at Angelo's? But you killed a man for me, John. You stayed with me through everything. You never doubted me, not once, and _that_ made me want you."

"But because you persisted in maintaining your labels and your neat little definitions of sexuality I kept my mouth shut. I remained silent and we lost so much time. But tell me John, if you knew then what you know now, if you knew your time was nearly up and that this would be over, would you have made the same choice?"

"No," the word tumbles from his mouth. "God, no. I thought – I thought –

Sherlock shoves John flat against the fridge and covers his mouth with his own. He can smell the scent of Sherlock's shampoo and taste the last remnants of his morning coffee and the cigarette he must have smoked while John was out. He bunches Sherlock's blazer in his fists and kisses him back because _God I don't want to die without having felt this._

Sherlock breaks the kiss a few moments later and buries his face in the side of John's neck. "I won't let you die," he whispers. "I can't. I need you, John. You can't die."

So much for not letting it change his life.


	4. Blood and Betadine

John was having a shit day.

Oh, it had started out well enough. He was still basking in the radiance that his newfound romance had cast on his life (Read: He was trying not to kill Sherlock at every turn because he loved the man), and he was getting used to the food, and he was only working for Mycroft part time – "Compromise, John." – and life had generally been good.

Right up until the moment Jim Moriarty decided to kidnap him. Then it all pretty much goes to hell.

His abductors had given him a sound beating, cracking large fists over his face and driving them into his stomach before putting a black bag over his head and throwing him into a car. Bloody wankers even broke his phone.

He doesn't know where he is, but it's dark and damp and the goddamn door is locked. It's some place industrial, that's for sure. He's bound to a large pipe and gagged, his legs stretched out in front of him.

The door on the other side of the room opens and Moriarty walks in. Behind him follows three men, two pushing an old silver gurney, the other pushing a tray of medical equipment. "Are you ready to play, Johnny-Boy?"

The bottom drops out of his stomach.

* * *

DI Lestrade is at his wits end. Sherlock was raising hell in his office, throwing everything he could get his hands on at the walls, and torturing the entirety of New Scotland Yard.

"Sherlock you have got to calm down," he tries to placate his friend. "We'll find him."

His coffee mug, a gift from his wife on their five year anniversary, cracks clean in two as it meets the door. "You have Anderson working the case! Anderson! He couldn't find his arse with two hands and a flashlight!"

"We're doing our best, Sherlock!"

"You're best isn't good enough!"

Lestrade slams his hands against the desk. "I know how much you care about John but _you are not helping_. Stop terrorizing my team and go do what you do, because being here isn't going to accomplish anything!"

Sherlock stops mid-rant and looks at him. "You're…you're right. There must be something, something I've missed. I'm going to go over the files again."

"Good lad."

"Will you tell me…?"

"You'll be the first to know."

* * *

Baker Street is achingly empty that night.

* * *

Three days later, as Sherlock begins to feel the first itch on the inside of his arm, Lestrade bursts into the flat, out of breath, and drags me downstairs. "We've found him."

"Where? Is he alright"

"Bank of the Thames. He's in rout to St. Bart's."

Sherlock prays the whole way there.

* * *

Sherlock catalogues John's injuries before the nurse ever says a word. Fractures: Three ribs, two fingers, and his jaw. Broken bones: Left leg, right arm, four fingers, one toe, and his nose. Puncture wounds to the left and right hand Dehydration, starvation, a kidney infection, and multiple lacerations, surgical in nature, localized in the chest area. His bandages are heavily soaked with blood and betadine and there is a tube running out of his nose. He's unconscious - "Sedated, Mr. Holmes. For comfort." – and the hospital bed seems to swallow him whole.

Harry is a drunk, sobbing mess and Sherlock is sure that if John were conscious he'd have her sent home. She's being more a hindrance than a help at this point. "Do stop, Harry. Hysterics are useless at this point."

She rounds on Sherlock. "You did this!"

He's dumbfounded. "I beg your pardon?"

"This is all your fault! My baby brother is going to die because of you! Why couldn't you have left him alone and found some other poor git to drag around London, getting themselves half killed every other day?" Her fists are clenched and she's stalking towards him. "Get him out! I don't want him here! Get him out!"

Lestrade pops his head in the door. "Everything alright?"

"No! Get him out!"

Lestrade shuffles his feet. "Sherlock, you need to go."

He feels his jaw drop. "You can't be serious!"

"She's his next of kin. She controls everything, including visitation," he opens the door wide and tried to usher Sherlock through it.

"Lestrade. I…you can't!"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's the law," he places a hand on Sherlock's elbow.

"He's my partner!"

"I know, Sherlock. He's been your assistant for a long time but –

He grasps at Lestrade's arm desperately. "No! Lestrade…Greg…he's…he's my _partner_."

Lestrade's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. He turns back to Harry, raises his palms to her as if to say _'What do you want me to do?'_, and gets a scathing look for his troubles. He shakes his head. "Come on."

Sherlock wrenches himself away from his friend and strides over to the bed.

"If you don't come willingly I'm going to have to arrest you and I've done enough of that to last a lifetime!"

Kneeling down beside the bed, Sherlock takes one of John's battered hands in his own and presses his lips to it. "I'm going to fix this, John. I won't let him get away with it. I promise. And…and then," his throat is pin hole thin; "you and I are going to get some peace and quiet. And you're going to get better. I promise."

He drops a kiss on John's forehead and leaves the room.

* * *

He spends the next seven days in the dark alleys and byways that crisscross London like so many scars. He uses his homeless network, former suppliers, and acquaintances, promises many things to many people, but Jim Moriarty has dropped off the face of the earth once again.

"What was the point of it all, then?" Lestrade asks when they've hit another dead end. "I don't understand it."

"There's a lot you don't understand, Detective Inspector. You'll have to be more specific."

Sliding into the car, Lestrade lights a cigarette and passes it to Sherlock. "Why kidnap John and not kill him? It would have been easy, wouldn't it? I mean, there's no way he would have been stupid enough not to notice he was still alive when he was dropped in the Thames, so he must have kept him alive on purpose. But why?"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Very good, Detective Inspector. I believe I'm rubbing off on you."

"God help me!"

Rolling his cigarette between his fingers, he stares out the window. The same questions had been tickling his mind since John had been found. It didn't make any sense.

Lestrade's phone rings. He flips it open. "Yes? Yeah. I know. What?" he jerks the steering wheel and does a dramatic U-Turn in the middle of the road. "Stop them. Don't let them do anything until I get there, do you understand?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sherlock snaps.

"Harry is going to take John off life support."

* * *

"You can't do that! He's recovering!"

"He's dying you bastard!"

The shouting match is going on round three and the nursing staff is getting antsy. Lestrade is whispering into a phone down the hall and not playing referee, much to Sherlock's irritation. "His heart is giving out. Even if he were completely healthy it would take ages for him to recover! There's no hope!"

For a moment it looks as if Sherlock is going to strike her. "Don't do this to me. Don't do this to _us_."

"Calm down, both of you. Take twenty and cool off, yeah?" Lestrade reappears, cell phone in hand, wide eyed. "Harry, go get a cuppa. You look like you could use it. I'll talk to Sherlock."

Harry disappears down the hall and Lestrade pulls him inside John's room. "Sit down and shut up," he says as he closes the door behind him. Sherlock sits. "I've…called in a favor."

"I don't have time for this, Lestrade!"

"You have time for it if you want to keep John alive! Now shut up!" Lestrade listens for a moment and watches the shadow of someone walking by flicker through the light pouring in beneath the door. "You're going to have to trust me, Sherlock. Whatever happens, let me do the talking and just play long. Do you understand?"

He shakes his head. "No."

Lestrade swipes a hand over his face. "Just…let me handle this, will you? Just do it. I'll explain later."

Harry arrives, coffee in hand, looking rather put out. "Why are you still here?" she turns to Lestrade. "I want him gone!"

"I'm afraid there's been a development. Sherlock has given me some…new information. It changes things a bit," he sees her gearing up for another shouting match and heads her off. "We're not just taking his word for it. I have someone confirming what he's told me and they're going to – Ah. Anderson. Excellent timing."

Anderson barges into the room without so much as a by your leave and shoves a stack of papers at Lestrade. "Looks like it's true. Papers filed just after Doctor Watson was diagnosed."

Lestrade turns to Sherlock. "I wish you'd told us the two of you'd gotten married. We would have celebrated!"

Sherlock's head snaps up. "We…we wanted to keep it private. The press and Moriarty…we didn't want anyone to know."

"Yeah," Lestrade says. "Makes sense. I'm sorry Harry, but this changes things a bit. Sherlock's rights supersede yours. I'll have to inform the doctors."

Harry looks apoplectic. "This isn't possible! John would have told me!"

Sherlock fixes her with a dark look. "When? When you were drunk? When you refused to call him on his birthday? When you ignored calls and texts from him, pleading with you to get off the booze again?"

"A piece of paper doesn't prove anything," she snaps. "What about witnesses?"

Lestrade consults the papers in his hands. "Molly Hooper witnessed, apparently. That had to have been John's idea, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock looks at the man lying in the hospital bed. "She's always been a good friend to us."

Lestrade folds up the papers and puts them in his coat pocket. "Well. That's that settled then," he puts a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I think you should go home, Harry. Get some rest. Anderson will walk you to your car, yeah?"

She slaps his hand away and stalks out.

"Make sure she gets home alright," he says to Anderson. "And I'll see you back at The Yard."

Anderson remains where he is, looking back and forth between Sherlock, John, and Lestrade, his single brain cell working furiously.

"Anderson," Lestrade snaps his fingers in front of his colleges face. "Harry Watson. Escort. Now."

Anderson leaves and Lestrade closes the door behind him.

"May I see those papers?" Sherlock holds his hand out.

Placing the papers in Sherlock's hands, Lestrade smiles. "They'll check out under scrutiny. I've even got a judge who will go on the record saying he married you two."

"Lying under oath? Isn't that against one of your laws?"

"Strictly speaking, yeah, but I don't think I'd serve time for it."

The documents in his hands are all genuine, down to the last detail. His own name is there, along with John's chicken scratch, and Molly's flowery looping signature, naming her a witness.

"How did you do this? You don't have the resources."

Lestrade looks entirely too pleased with himself. "You're not the only one with contacts."

Sherlock deduces him for the first time that day. Hair freshly cut. Forgot to shave. Armed. Handcuffs in back pocket. Old suit. Grey. Coffee and donut for breakfast. Black coffee, blueberry donut. New tie. Silk. Probably a gift. No. Not new. One previous owner. Blue silk. Expensive. Decorated with….tiny umbrellas?

"Good Lord!"

"Now, Sherlock –

"That's…no. I don't want to think about it. No." He folds the papers up and holds them out to Lestrade.

"Keep them. Though, copies are probably stashed around your flat now."

He tucks them into his coat. "Thank you. I…thank you," he sits on the edge of John's bed. "You don't know what this means to me."

"Sherlock? What Harry said before? You know she was right, don't you? Even if he makes it through this…it's exacerbated his problem. He won't be the same."

"What about a new heart? Could he get a new heart?"

"Well, yeah, I suppose so but the waits about six months."

"Give him mine, then."

"What? Sherlock, no. It doesn't work like that," Lestrade pulls a chair up and sits next to him.

"Why not?"

"Look, I know you delete lots of things because you don't find them useful, but you've got to have information about blood types stashed away in that big brain of yours."

Sherlock nods. "We don't have the same blood type. My heart would be incompatible with his body."

"Not to mention he'd hate you for the rest of his life if you killed yourself for him. _Again_."

Sherlock gives a dry chuckle. "Yes. He probably would," he says. "You realize this is what he wanted? Moriarty? He wanted to make me suffer by watching John die, knowing there's nothing I can do."

"I guessed that bit."

He looks up from John's beaten and broken body and straight into Lestrade's eyes. "I'm going to kill him. I am going to rip him limb from limb, slowly, and painfully. I'm going to make him suffer."

"I'll…bail you out when you're finished."

Sherlock runs a hand through John's hair. "It's a deal."


	5. Pink

The first time John opens his eyes after the kidnapping Sherlock nearly weeps for joy (Read: Sobs like a two year old and threatens Lestrade with decapitation and evisceration if he tells anyone). Sherlock knows he's in pain, knows his whole body aches and he's not happy that he's pissing in a bag but none of that matters because John is awake and so wonderfully, blessedly alive.

"Shhhhhhh-ah," his voice is dry and ragged when he tried to speak. Sherlock hushes him and holds an ice chip to his mouth. He takes it gratefully, the cool cube melting in his mouth almost instantly.

"Just rest," he smooths John's hair, cups his cheek, and uses his other hand to press the tiny button attached to his IV Pump. The morphine works quickly and John's eyes flutter. He's fighting the drugs, trying to stay awake, eyes trying desperately to focus on Sherlock's face.

"…you, S'lock…" his words slur together. He struggles to sit up. Sherlock pushes him back down.

"Shhhh. I know. I know."

John's head lolls back and forth from side to side, fingers digging into Sherlock's coat. " 'Iarty," his grip tightens. "…after you."

Sherlock kisses him all over his battered face. "I know."

* * *

Life became startlingly quiet.

Moriarty had once again become nothing more than a breath on the wind. No more than a passing nightmare to the average Londoner, but to Sherlock he was a poltergeist; demon that would never leave on its own. He would hide in the shadows, gathering strength, and when Sherlock was at his lowest he would strike.

* * *

A month and a half after the kidnapping John is released from the hospital. There's an armed officer posted outside Baker Street and there's a nurse who comes to visit John every other day to assess his needs. It becomes familiar. Ritual. Simple. They need simple right now.

John sleeps most of the time. His body is doing much more work than his heart can sustain trying to heal all the damage Moriarty has done. He sometimes hobbles around on his crutches, but quickly becomes out of breath, so for the most part he stays in bed.

Sherlock has all but moved back into his old room. Why shouldn't he? He and John are closer than ever and while they had not yet been physically intimate he could safely say there was no one else in the world he would rather sleep next to. John had worn many titles during his tenure at Baker Street. Flatmate, colleague, friend, partner, lover, and now husband.

He's never understood the desire to be so close to someone that the only way to be more intimately connected would be to assimilate by osmosis. He'd found it annoying and frightfully dull before. He gets it now.

That's not to say they hadn't been intimate in any form. He'd celebrated John's return to Baker Street by gently sponging away all traces of the hospital from his skin and following the wash cloths damp trail with his mouth, as though he could heal the pain with kisses if given enough time.

The night had ended with Sherlock preforming a blowjob and John falling asleep in his arms.

These days he rarely leaves the flat. He turned down every case, every investigation, in favor of spending just one moment more with John. John whose pulse was sluggish and limbs were swelling with excess fluid, forcing him to wear his "wedding ring" on a chain around his neck, next to his dog tags. Whose alertness faded in and out, coming and going without warning or preamble; who had begun to cough, hacking up bright pink phlegm into the tissues Sherlock held to his mouth.

Pink.

That his days with this man would start and end with such a bright, happy, _ridiculous_ color made him want to rip his hair out.

They've had _The Talk_. The one where Sherlock breaks every piece of glass in the flat because John utterers the words "When I die…" and he would rather listen to the sound of his life's work being destroyed forever than to hear those words again.

But he does.

Because John is nothing if not persistent and he whispers his last wishes, Sherlock's arms wrapped around him as they lay in bed together, knowing Sherlock will not run away from him here.

"I want to be cremated," he says. "Don't…don't let them put me in the ground. No matter what Harry says…don't let them put me in the ground."

Sherlock's throat and eyes are burning, crawling with a million fire ants biting into the tender flesh.

"Promise me, Sherlock," he says. "Promise me."

"I promise."

* * *

Kathy the nurse arrives in the morning and gives John a once over. "I think it's time to go to the hospital," she says.

"No! No hospitals. He wants to stay here. He wants to be…home."

The woman nods and Sherlock sees her to the door. She stops on the stoop and pulls on her coat. "Mr. Holmes, you need to prepare yourself."

He swallows thickly. "How long?"

She sighs. "A few days, a few weeks. Who knows? It all depends on him."

* * *

Lestrade stops by with another case.

Sherlock slams the door in his face.

* * *

He's lining up John's medications on the bureau before bed when he sees it. It's nothing more than a stream of faint red light, but it lands squarely in the middle of John's chest, rising and falling slowly in sleep, and he follows its trail to the tiny slit between the curtains.

Walking to the window he rips the curtains back, blocking John from view with his own body. Hanging from the building across the street is a large black and white banner. Atop the building, a lone figure paces.

_I can still stop his heart._

_ Come out and play._

_ x - Jim_


	6. With This Heart

The sky is a dark indigo, scattered with stars as tiny and numerous as those that grace John's pale skin. Moriarty stands at the edge of the roof, phone held aloft, a wedding march floating through the cool night air.

"Here comes the bride!" his insane cackle rips through the night.

Sherlock stops about five feet away and watches him, blue eyes burning with fury, fingers clenching, itching to wrap themselves around his throat.

Moriarty smiles. "How is John? I have missed reading that little blog of his."

"Leave John out of this," Sherlock says. "This is between me and you."

"Ah, no. The two have become one! Marriage does that, you know."

Sherlock takes a menacing step forward. "I should kill you right now."

"Ah, ah, ah!" Moriarty makes a signal with his hand and the drapes of his bedroom window are thrown open. He watches in horror as the police officer that had been stationed outside their home takes aim at John's sleeping form. Moriarty smiles. "You hooooooonestly didn't believe I wouldn't be watching you, did you? I had eyes and ears in your flat and you didn't even know it. Even that pretty little nurse was on my payroll."

"I will rip you limb from limb," the words come out in a snarl.

His enemy saunters forward. "I wouldn't, if I were you. Not just yet. Why don't we have a chat? I have a proposition for you."

Sherlock keeps his eyes trained on the window.

Moriarty waves a dismissive hand. "Moran won't act without my say so. He's very loyal that way. Though, I do have to thank you for that. I never considered getting a pet until I saw you and John."

Pulling his gaze from the window he turns to Moriarty. "You said you had a proposition."

"Indeed I do. One I think you'll appreciate."

The Devil smiles.

* * *

John wakes from a nightmare.

His dream had been a strange beast. A love child made of bullets and semtex, veins running with Farsi and the light rolling brogue of a mad Scotsman, it jerks him awake roughly.

He feels groggy, the morphine still coursing through him, and he moves a shaky hand to Sherlock's side of the bed. It's empty but he assumes Sherlock is somewhere in the flat. Probably experimenting on something.

He rolls over in bed and the glare of the street lights stings his eyes. _Bloody arse forgot to close the drapes. _He shields his eyes and smiles at the silhouette standing in the shadows by the window.

"Come back to bed," he says.

He doesn't move.

John tries to sit up in bed. He still doesn't move and something niggles in the back of his mind. Sherlock would usually be by his side already. Maybe he was in one of his moods? It wasn't unheard of for the man to go near deaf when he was rolling a problem around in his head.

"Sherlock? Love?" he tries again. "Sherlock!"

He hears the distinct sound of a gun cocking. "Lovely to see you again, Captain."

* * *

Moriarty is practically skipping.

It's annoying.

"Do tell," Sherlock says, his voice soft.

Moriarty steps close, so close Sherlock can smell his hair gel, and grins his manic grin. "I will give John a heart," he says.

This is not what he's been expecting. This is…unprecedented. This is...a trap. It has to be. "What?"

"I," Moriarty says "will give John a heart. In exchange I get you."

"Aaaah. I knew there'd be a catch."

"Of course! You can't get something for nothing, you know."

The wind whips around them, combing itself through his hair the way John is wont to do when they're lying in bed and he's feeling nostalgic.

John.

John would get a heart, he would get health, a chance at a new life. The idea was…enticing and not entirely without merit. "Explain."

Moriarty's dark eyes shine like coals.

* * *

"Christ in heaven!" his heart leaps painfully in his chest. He scuttles back against the headboard, searching the face of the intruder.

"Nighmares? I got 'em too. Terrible, awful nightmares," he tilts his head to the side. "Surprised to see me?"

_Somewhat, yeah._

He glances at the door and Moran points the gun at him. "I wouldn't," he says.

"What are you doing here?"

Moran smiles. "Helping out a friend."

John's mind is whirling. Where is Sherlock? How did Moran get past him and all the way to the bedroom? Why was Moran here? Helping out a friend? Not likely. Moran was a mean son of a bitch back in the day. No friends to speak of. At least not ones you'd speak of in pleasant company.

"What friend?"

Moran brushes the tip of the gun against his lips and smiles. "Don't try to chat me up, Cap. I'm not one of you bar girls."

John swallows. "Moriarty then? Right. So. What's your part in this? Why you?"

"You're not as dumb as I remember," Moran says. "Holmes is rubbing off on you. Why not try to figure it out?"

He feels dizzy, but he doesn't know if it's the situation he's in or his heart acting up or his lungs giving out or a combination of the three. But even with all that he knows there can be only one reason Moran would volunteer to be someone else's gunman. "Here to settle a score?"

"I'm impressed."

"Don't be. It's pretty obvious." Ok, so Sherlock is rubbing off on him. What did everyone expect?

Moran points the gun at him again. "You ruined my life."

"You killed innocent civilians."

* * *

"If, or shall I say when? You're rather attached to your little pet. You'd do anything for him. Anything. When it is then! When I give John a heart, you come with me. My point man. My assistant. We'll travel the world together!"

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "For how long?"

"As long as I want," his head oscillates from side to side. "But as long as that heart still beats, you have no contact with him. No phone calls. No emails. Nothing. You never see him again. You never return to London."

Sherlock feels his breath fly out of him in a rush. Life without John, trapped by Moriarty's side for God knows how long, never to breath the London smog again? But…John will live.

_And all the Devil ever asks for is a soul._

* * *

"You sent me to Military Prison," Moran says.

"You sent yourself to MP," he's getting more and more out of breath. "I just testified."

"I'm do wish he'd just let me kill you."

_Ah,_ he thinks. _So he can't kill me. Not yet. Why?_

"What do you mean?"

Moran laughs out right. "He's planning on making a deal."

"A deal?"

"You for Holmes. I don't know the details, but I'm sure Moriarty will come out on top anyway. He usually does."

John places the flat of his hand against the mattress and tries to push himself off the bed. Moran growls at him, "Don't fucking move," and it startles him so that his hand slips on the smoothness of the sheets and slides under Sherlock's pillow.

* * *

"Deal," he says, and he reaches out to shake Moriarty's hand.

Shots ring out and his bedroom window shatters, the glass falling through the darkness to the earth like so many falling stars.

It startles him, but then again it startles Moriarty too, so he doesn't feel too bad.

He peers down into the street and sees the broken body of Moriarty's gunman lying on the pavement. He does the only thing he can think of.

He attacks.

Tackling Moriarty to the ground they scuffle and roll on the ground. Grabbing, punching, scratching, his whole mind screaming _Kill, kill, kill. Protect John._

Moriarty digs his thumbs into his eyes, his nails biting into the tear ducts. Sherlock roars in pain and Moriarty flips him, using his knees to pin him to the ground. He clasps his hands around Sherlock's face. "You know, I think I'll kill John. Slowly. Painfully. And I'll make you watch."

He brings his knee up between Moriarty's legs and jams it painfully into his balls. However grand he may think himself, Moriarty is still a man, and he lets out a pained shout.

It's all he needs.

He rolls them across the ground, fingers wrapped around Moriarty's neck, he squeezes until he feels a satisfying snap and his enemy's eyes go blank.

He stands, body shaking with adrenaline, and stares at the corpse. It was over. Moriarty was dead. They were free. He and John were free. John.

"John!"

He moves faster than he thought possible, tripping over his own feet as he runs across the street and flings open the door to the flat. He takes the stairs two at a time, using the rail to haul himself up, until he reaches the landing.

John is lying in the middle of the living room covered in blood.

"John! John!" he rushes over and kneels down. _Please no. God no. Not now. _"John, open your eyes. Don't die on me. Not now. Not tonight."

John's eyes flutter open. He smiles. "You look a fright," he says. "I shot a man. Push knocked him out the window."

"I put the gun under my pillow," he says. "Weeks ago. For protection.

"Good plan," his eyes flutter. "Brilliant plan. Christ I'm tired."

Sherlock kisses him. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

* * *

Molly Hooper calls him the next day.

He goes down to St. Bart's, leaving John in Mrs. Hudson's care, to hear what she has to say.

"I know it's not exactly orthodox but the test results came back and I know you might not like the idea but I thought it was worth a try and I mean you'd do anything –

"Do get to the point, Molly. I need to get back."

"He's a match."

"I'm sorry?"

She places a stack of papers in front of him. "Moriarty. He's a perfect match. For John."

He sifts through the papers, taking in the information in front of him. "His heart? It would be John's?" He doesn't know how he feels about that.

Molly nods. "You'd have to get through some red tape but…you're Sherlock Holmes. You can get through anything."

If he had his way every inch of Jim Moriarty would be burnt and the ashes poured into the Thames, but he's smart enough to recognize a miracle when it comes his way.

Sherlock closes the file. "Do it," he says.

* * *

He has to promise a lot of things to a lot of people, Mycroft in particular, but everything the paperwork gets done. John doesn't know where his heart is coming from and Sherlock has no intention of telling him.

They're gathered in the hospital room, Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, all wishing him luck and preparing for the long road to recovery.

"I need to talk to Mycroft," John says. "Alone."

Sherlock frowns.

"Please? Indulge me. Just this once," he says. "I'll be healed and you'll be back to bossing me around in no time. Just do this for me."

Sherlock looks at Lestrade who shrugs and Mrs. Hudson who shakes her head. Finally, he glares at Mycroft. "What did you do?" he asks.

"Nothing at all," his brother says.

"Sherlock. Please." John pouts at him. He hates it when John pouts at him. He files out of the room with the others, but loiters outside the door.

Mycroft exits a few minutes later.

"What did he say?" Sherlock asks.

"He had a request," Mycroft answers, elusive as ever.

"What sort of request?"

"A personal one," he fiddles with his umbrella. "Good day, brother. Do text me when he's out of surgery. I have some…things that need to be taken care of."

"They have creams for that."

* * *

It's Christmas, some months later, and John smiles as Mrs. Hudson toddles around with a tray of cookies. Mycroft and Lestrade are there, talking discretely in the corner. According to Sherlock they were together, but he couldn't see that. But then again, he could seldom see what Sherlock saw.

Sherlock places a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he says. "All fine. Just tuckered."

Sherlock kisses his temple in a rare display of public affection. "They'll be gone soon. Then to bed."

He's right, they do leave, and he dozes in his chair as Sherlock cleans up.

"John. Let's go to bed."

He opens one blue eye and smirks. "Can't. There's one gift left."

Sherlock looks under the tree and frowns. "There isn't any," he says.

John shakes his head. "Under the sink. Behind the cleaning supplies."

Sherlock walks to the kitchen and pulls the gift out, turning it over in his hands, admiring the red wrapping paper and frowning in confusion. He didn't like feeling confused.

"Why under the sink?"

"Because it's the one place you'd never look," he says as Sherlock sits across from him. "Open it."

He does, ripping the paper away with childlike enthusiasm. He opens the plain brown box and stops short. His gaze flickers to John and then back to the box as he slowly pulls out a large jar.

"John…"

"It's yours," he says, gesturing to the jar. "It's always been yours. I see no reason why you shouldn't have it."

Sherlock holds the jar up to the light and admires the way it filters through the formaldehyde, bending and refracting around the heart hovering inside. "How…?"

"Mycroft," he says simply. He stands and takes a few well measured steps towards Sherlock. He stops in front of him and drops his hand on top of the jar, fingers brushing Sherlock's. "We never had a wedding. We never even got to go to a courthouse and say our vows. Well, this is mine."

Sherlock is still confused. "John…"

"Shush," he keeps one hand on top of the jar, takes Sherlock's hand with the other, drops to his knees. "Sherlock Holmes, with this heart, I thee wed."

Sherlock kisses him soundly. "I love you," he says.

"I know."

* * *

A/N: It's been a long, crazy ride! To those of you who've stuck with this story, thank you! It means more to me than you can imagine! For everyone who's reviewed: I LOVE YOUR FACES. Thank you, and goodnight!


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